


Still Life with Harpsichord

by Match (pachipachi)



Category: Hannibal (TV), Ripley's Game (2002)
Genre: Bedelia is Sick of Your Shit, Breakfast Around the World, Crossover, Hannibal is Hannibal, Multi, Post-Episode: s02e13 Mizumono, Ripley is Ripley, Safe Haven, Snark
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-27
Updated: 2018-05-06
Packaged: 2018-11-19 13:37:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,854
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11314512
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pachipachi/pseuds/Match
Summary: Hannibal and Bedelia drop in on Hannibal's old friend Tom Ripley. Bitchiness ensues.





	1. Day One / Evening / Inbound

"Hello, Tom. Yes, it's me."  
  
Bedelia came to wakefulness as if stepping through a sliding door. Hannibal's fingers pressed the side of her wrist once, firmly: _this is of mutual concern_.  
  
"It seems I'll have to pay you a visit sooner than I anticipated." A pause. "I'm calling from the train."  
  
It seemed this was not the correct answer. Hannibal in her peripheral vision pursed his lips. "The train to _Venice_. If it's at all inconvenient for you we'll keep on our present route. Otherwise we'll change for the local in about forty minutes. No, there's only the two of us." His hand drifted again to cover hers. "My wife."  
  
That was a new development.  
  
"Separate rooms." A pause. "I don't think that will be necessary." Hannibal wore the face of a man valiantly suppressing a sigh. "Thirty hours, give or take." Then he did sigh. "We're both being facetious, Tom. _I_ am being precise."  
  
He switched the phone to his other ear and tipped his head onto her shoulder. For the next minute he said very little.  
  
Hannibal conciliatory, Hannibal negotiating from a position of weakness: he was affording her the casual intimacy he might have granted a less fictive spouse. Some small part of Bedelia, against her will, nurtured an unreciprocated tenderness. A less charitable part of her hoped Tom was making him squirm.  
  
Hannibal slouched against her now, voice coming in a weary monotone. It seemed impossible that he was as tired as he pretended to be, but many things seemed impossible until the moment they proved true.  
  
"I do understand, Tom. You may trust I've been discreet." It was only as Hannibal straightened that Bedelia realized how deeply she'd allowed herself to relax against him. "In fact I did think it less rude. Dead drop implies that the recipient is absent. I'll be around to pick up after myself, and also you'll have the pleasure of my company."  
  
Whether Tom thought this a pleasure was debatable.  
  
Hannibal stirred to search for the train schedule; Bedelia unfolded it to display their route and tapped the correct Arrivals column. Hannibal squinted at the sun as it reflected off glossy paper. "We change at 6:15 local time, and after that it will take as long as it takes. I'll text you when we're thirty minutes out. All right. Forty-five."  
  
Either he was too peeved for a proper goodbye or Tom had hung up on him. Bedelia unfolded the train schedule to its full span and puzzled it back together it slowly, ostentatiously.  
  
"You neglected to inform me that my marital status had changed."  
  
"Technically, it hasn't yet. I'm waiting on some documents."  
  
"Are you also waiting on my consent in the matter, or was that a foregone conclusion? Tell me, Hannibal, what else have I agreed to unawares?"  
  
"We are partners in a particular social fiction. I think you understand your compliance in this area is non-negotiable."  
  
"And in other areas?"  
  
"As with any arranged marriage, it will take us some time to grow accustomed to one another. Greater intimacy may follow, or it may not. I make no demands of you if you will make none of me."  
  
The envelope he pressed into her hand was perfectly sized for one key or two rings.  
  
"You can take charge of these for the time being," Hannibal said, "if it will make you feel more comfortable. Though I'd prefer you didn't wear yours in public just yet."  
  
Bedelia thrust the envelope into her purse without opening her hand.  
  
"I've taken the precaution of having our luggage diverted," he said. "Your suitcase should arrive early tomorrow. Tom's home is well-appointed, but if you have any particular needs I can text him. Preferably in the next few minutes, before he wanders away from his phone."  
  
In the moment all Bedelia could think of was the green chenille pullover she'd gotten at a clothing swap back in med school. It had last been unfashionable in 1994; the elbows were frayed to oblivion. She couldn't remember if she even still owned it.  
  
"That won't be necessary," she said. "And your suitcase?"  
  
"Mine will arrive in Dusseldorf, eventually. I wish the baggage handlers joy of my shirts."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tom is played by John Malkovich. Story takes place less than a year after the events of the 2002 film, because fictional time is as elastic as we need it to be.


	2. Day One / Evening / Introductions

The man waiting beyond the scrum of commuters, next to a car, would be Tom by process of elimination. He had his topcoat buttoned to the neck and beret turned down over his ears as if expecting a squall. He and Hannibal looked nothing alike. Still Bedelia couldn't shake the feeling they were somehow twinned. Two hounds matching pace, two snakes with mirrored tracks, two gravitational waves. Would they amplify each other, or cancel out?

Hannibal had shouldered her carry-on unbidden. Now he offered an arm.

"There's some uneven ground beyond the platform. In heels it would be treacherous."

They picked their way across the gravel at Bedelia's pace. The car chirped once. Tom pressed two more buttons on his key fob and the hatchback sighed open. "I'll take the bag," he said.

"It's good to see you also, Tom."

"Is it? I haven't decided." Tom shifted a few things in the trunk to make room. His smile, when he turned around, wasn't even the fiction of a pleasantry. "Why don't you introduce me to your companion."

"Certainly."

Here, as on the train, Hannibal was ceding home court advantage. Tom's curtness was one part of a game he'd consented to, a game both of them knew well.

"Bedelia," he said, "this is Tom Ripley. Tom, this is Dr. Bedelia Du Maurier."

Tom didn't offer to shake hands.

"Hannibal's told me so much about you," Bedelia said blandly. Three could play as well as two.

"Has he?" Tom said without curiosity.

Hannibal, stalking towards the car: "No." He opened the passenger door. "Shall we?"

*

Tom took curves rather sharply for someone committed to driving below the posted speed limit. 

"How long are you here for, or does it depend?" He didn't wait for an answer. "Luisa's on tour this month, here and there. I don't expect her until next week, but that could change. No offense but I don't think you two should meet."

Hannibal's voice came loud in her ear, as if he'd been leaning forward between the seats. "That's understood."

"And what names are you using these days?"

"We're between identities at the moment."

Even in profile, Tom's sigh was almost imperceptible. "I suppose you think my man would be just the one to expedite things."

"I am perfectly capable of making my own arrangements, Tom." For the first time Hannibal sounded actually annoyed. He'd tolerate being treated as baggage, but apparently not even Tom was permitted to impugn his professionalism. No matter the profession.

It was growing dark. Tom switched off the headlights when they flicked on automatically and waited until it seemed impossible for anyone to see the road before finally switching them on.

"The housekeeper will be gone by this time. She's generally in and out during the day only. Since you'll be doing the cooking I've given her a long weekend off."

The last turn, Bedelia realized, had been a long driveway; now they were approaching the house.

"If there's the slightest possibility of unpleasantness, Hannibal, you had better tell me now."

"Have some confidence, Tom. I'm not an amateur."

"But you made a rookie mistake, and now you're here."

"The human factor can be unpredictable. As you know."

"I don't think you're in a position to argue with me." A mordant smile not meant for Hannibal. Bedelia saw, now, a glint of what he saw in Tom: both of them wore death's heads under the skin.

"No visits from people we don't like," Tom iterated, in a voice that had crossed from lightly sardonic to menacing. "No visits from people we do like. No phone calls from people we aren't speaking to. No incoming calls on the landline. No outgoing long-distance calls. You can get a new cell phone or I'll get one for you." He stopped the car. Two motion-sensor lamps cast halos across a brick patio. "Any bullshit you're trailing, that's on you. If it comes to my door I don't know you, and neither does Dr. Du Maurier. You're using me as a safe house? I'm keeping myself safe."

The phrase, in Tom's light voice, seemed more and more fictional. Bedelia was traveling with wolves. It would be foolish to expect real safety at any house with them in it. Maybe tomorrow she'd find the energy to be afraid.

There was sound of a latch, then a breeze on the back of her neck as the trunk opened.

"The kitchen door's unlocked. I'll take the car around to the garage and meet you in a moment." Tom twisted back, leaving one hand on the wheel and the car still in Drive. "And Hannibal," he said, "you won't be hunting here."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Luisa is Tom's fiancee. She is a well-regarded concert harpsichordist.


	3. Day One / Night / Hotelier

Inside, it took Hannibal some time to find the lightswitch. His face in the moment the light reached it was gray and utterly blank, his eyes like coins. He set down the carry-on and rolled his right shoulder experimentally. Bedelia’s feet hurt. She stood where she’d stopped and let them go on hurting.

“Tom knows what you are,” she said experimentally.

“Yes. And he’s eaten at my table.”

There didn’t seem to be anything to say to that. Bedelia watched him evaluate the potentialities of the space: its open shelving, the oven set into one wall, the kitchen island with its gas range. The room’s natural gathering point, then, was an actual open fire. She made a mental note to bring that up before Hannibal got the chance.

Tom’s entrance couldn’t have been less theatrical. Still she had the fleeting sense he’d completed a tableau. They formed their own audience. 

“I suppose I should offer you something,” Tom said. “Drinks, sandwiches. It’s a little late for espresso but then I don’t know what time it is where you are. Or we could stand around staring at each other until we get tired. Your call.”

Hannibal’s reply came with the mildest quirk of an eyebrow. “Would that be an actual or a hypothetical offer?”

“Well, I don’t know what’s left in the fridge and there’s hardly any bread. The drinks are real, though. Doctor?” And he turned to Bedelia.

The bit of politesse might have been welcome if it had had anything to do with her. Tom wasn’t granting Bedelia the honorific so much as he was denying it to Hannibal.

“Scotch,” she said, “neat.”

Tom jerked his head toward Hannibal without entirely looking at him. “How about you?”

“A dash of Fernet-Branca, if you still keep it on hand. Thank you.”

“Your lucky day,” Tom said, part sarcastic and part fond. “Any preference on the scotch?”

“I’ve become accustomed to having decisions made for me.” She would’ve spared a glance for Hannibal if she’d thought he had enough humanity left to look abashed.

“We’ll have the same, then,” Tom said. “Hannibal can get us some mineral water. Plane air is so dehydrating, and you wouldn’t want hangovers on top of everything else.”

He was gone longer than seemed necessary, which granted Hannibal time to assemble a small antipasto tray along with the seltzer and glasses. It could be another facet of their game, or it could be that Hannibal’s position was more precarious than she knew.

Hannibal poured three glasses of seltzer, topped off the first glass and then the third to equalize them. Tom set a handspan of cocktail glasses on the counter; Bedelia was offered both more or less simultaneously. She accepted the scotch.

Tom knocked back half of his and selected an olive. “Maria waited more than a week for these to come in at the shop,” he said. “It’s all right, we can call this an occasion. Something about old friends, or new friends, or our good friends at Interpol--”

“Don’t, Tom.” Only the pads of Hannibal’s fingers on the counter betrayed tension. He scented his drink as if he expected the smell to clear his head.

Don’t question his professionalism? Don’t make obscure threats? Don’t invite the devil in by naming him? An abortive motion of Tom’s hand, as if he’d thought better of reaching for Hannibal’s.

“Sure about the Fernet?” he said, close to gentle. “I know you, you’ll be up all night.”

Bedelia might not have been in the room. She picked at the slivers of cheese and tried to find it in herself to care about Hannibal Lecter’s well-being. The man’s face took on a shape that was meant to be a close-mouth smile, but whatever emotion he was trying to project didn’t make it to the surface. Tom seemed to accept whatever it was as genuine.

Hannibal turned away slightly before drinking. In the moment he looked terribly young, terribly close to having to hold the glass with both hands.

“I’ll show you to your rooms,” Tom said, reverting to blandness, “and then I’m going to bed. You can take this--” and he snagged another olive, “up with you. I don’t know what kind of luggage you’re expecting, but no wheels on the floors, okay?”

The stairs were narrower than she’d expected, more suited to candlelight than halogen bulbs. Hannibal no doubt was mentally redecorating the passage with tapers, or torches. Bedelia had been allowed to carry her own bag at the very moment she would rather have surrendered it. The marble treads had a worn hollow in the center: treacherous in heels.

“This part of the house actually was a hotel for a while,” Tom was saying. “I haven’t gotten around to doing much with it. Aside from the two bedrooms there’s not much furniture.” He paused between identical doors. “Dr. Du Maurier’s room has the en suite, so you’ll have to share. It’ll be good practice, don’t you think?”

“Please,” she said, “call me Bedelia.” Having her name used to score points with was growing intolerable. “Which room?”

Tom inclined his head to her right, his left. Bedelia would never remember opening that door, only shutting it behind her.

*

The furniture was less than perfectly matched; otherwise, the room could have passed for one at a three-star boutique hotel. Pajamas at the foot of the bed of a flimsy cut neither she nor Hannibal would have chosen. Luisa must be near to her size.

Hannibal knocked and waited. She might make him wait longer: say she'd been drawing a bath, or say nothing at all. But then she had so little to work with. Better to save a petty display for such time as she could make it really sting.

And then he stood at the threshold in his shirtsleeves, barefoot. His toenails wanted trimming. Noticing that-- retaining the capacity to notice it-- would have to count as her victory for the day.

"I've come to wash up," he said unecessarily. Bedelia's liquor glass was in her hand again. The level and color appeared unchanged, but anything pharmacy-grade would require only a few drops. She drank.

The small array of products on the bathroom counter might have been hand-me-downs from either Tom or Luisa. The razor in its plastic shell was an obvious last-minute purchase. Hannibal studied the ingredients list on each separate bottle of facial cleanser.

"This can't have featured in any of your plans," Bedelia said. "Sharing servants' quarters with your erstwhile therapist, lumpy pillows and all. Tell me, am I living down to your expectations?"

Hannibal met her eyes in the mirror. "If you mean to bait me into some kind of outburst, you'll have to try harder. Besides," with some slight amusement, "the pillows are perfectly adequate." He selected a bottle with a German label. Bedelia finger-combed her hair for lack of anything more productive to do. She pulled bobby pin after bobby pin, more than she ever remembered putting in. She’d probably still be finding them the next day.

He picked up the thread as if he hadn’t spent most of a minute with his head under the faucet, water running down his collar. “I’ll concede our situation is less than ideal. But in the broad strokes, I’ve achieved nearly everything the original plan was to bring me.”

“Which was what, exactly? Indulge me, Hannibal. Walk me through it.”

“A clean, irreparable break with my life in Baltimore. To escape U.S. jurisdiction and the surveillance that entails. To be free to begin again.”

“Together,” Bedelia finished his sentence. She couldn’t have said if it were a question or a vain prayer.

Hannibal turned away from the mirror without quite looking at her. “There was no variation of the plan in which I departed without a companion.”

A hostage, Bedelia didn’t say.

“In any case we are bound together. You chose to come with me, I believe freely. But having done so, you are no longer entirely free to leave.”

The childish urge to ask _till when? for how long?_ as if her time with Hannibal were a fixed sentence. As if he’d ever be through with her.

“Till death do us part, then,” she said. “If you’re finished here, I do need to use the sink.”

“Remember,” he said in lieu of a goodnight, “you brought it up first.”

Of course the bastard thought that was funny. But he was right about the pillows. Sleep came more easily than it should have, considering.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tom's home is the real-life [Villa Emo](https://www.villaemo.org/home-uk), which is part of a[UNESCO World Heritage site](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Palladian_villas_of_the_Veneto). Hannibal, if he knew, would be unspeakably jealous.
> 
> The digestif [Fernet-Branca](https://www.tastingtable.com/drinks/national/fernet-branca-amaro-italian-liqueur-guide) is definitely an acquired taste. The flavor is a bit like Jaegermeister, but dry and not at all syrupy. It may or may not contain caffeine, but I've found it to have a stimulant effect.


	4. Day Two / Morning / Detente

Bedelia dreamed of travel the way sailors still feel the sea after hours ashore. There was a queue, and she was in it, and Hannibal was there. He floated in her peripheral vision, all cuffs and lapels and honeyed voice. Or she struggled along a corridor chasing the back of his head, his hair mussed and draggling over the collar of a bloodied shirt.

Then it was light and he was in the room.

It was no use pretending to be asleep, but Hannibal wasn't paying attention to her anyway. He stooped over the luggage stand, arranging something she couldn’t quite see. If it included a note with instructions she was going to flush it down the toilet unread.

Bedelia waited for him to leave. She might have slept again.

*

There were clothes in her suitcase she didn’t recognize. High-waisted loose trousers and a cardigan with an asymmetric cut: it seemed more Tom’s style than Hannibal’s. Her passport was gone. Bedelia would have felt more concern if the document hadn't been issued to an Aimee DeMint (birthplace: Hanscom AFB). It was her in the photo, at least, though she'd been a brunette at the time. 

She paused short of the kitchen door with a clear view of Hannibal wrenching the handle from the espresso machine and dashing coffee grounds into the sink. Tom’s voice: “Second time’s the charm?”

“Every machine is different.”

“You could just admit you’re out of practice. It’s all right.”

No reply. Hannibal rinsed the portofilter and tamped grounds for another shot. His swift motions of shoulder and elbow and hip seemed unaccountably put on until Bedelia realized they had been, for her. Then it was all the worst kind of normal.

“Good morning,” he said, regarding the brimming cup as if he suspected it of informing against him. “My repertoire doesn’t extend to a proper cappuccino at this time, but perhaps a flat white, or an Americano--”

“There’s cashew milk,” Tom put in, “if that’s your thing. I forgot, was it that you were vegan, or lactose-intolerant?”

It was a bizarre piece of misdirection, even by her recently relaxed standards. “Neither. Espresso will be fine. Thank you.”

Hannibal joined cup to saucer, added a tiny spoon, and presented it to her, elbows cantilevered just so. “Tom brought us cornettos from town. _Cornetti_ ,” he repeated, like a quotation.

“Very kind of you to make the trip so early.”

“It’s only about two kilometers round-trip,” Tom said. “And I often go on a bike ride in the morning.” He took another bite of museli.

The cornettos were fanned over a patterned dish along with two kinds of butter and three of jam: a composition no doubt best appreciated from above. Hannibal slid a plate and napkin before her as she sat. The towel over his arm barely brushed her collar. Nevertheless Bedelia felt it like a hand to her neck.

The first sip of espresso nearly scalded. Bedelia tucked her tongue behind her teeth. There was a reason she’d barely allowed Hannibal in her own kitchen, and this was it: he’d taken possession of the space, redrawing it around himself. Tom didn’t seem to mind, but that was Tom.

Hannibal pulled another shot and offered it to to Tom; he barely looked up when accepting the cup. An outsider might reasonably assume they were the married couple and Bedelia their guest. Hannibal folded his towel and joined them. “To accompany the cornettos, we have marmalade, raspberry, and blackcurrant jam, salted and unsalted butter. The garnish is also edible: sorrel, parsley, and even the flowers have a pleasing texture, if not much taste.”

Bedelia tore one end off her cornetto. She felt ravenously hungry yet couldn’t stand the thought of them watching her eat. Of Hannibal watching, really, as Tom was scrolling absently on his phone.

Hannibal selected a pastry. “I confess I do prefer a savory to a sweet breakfast,” then marmalade, salted butter, “but it is traditional.”

In Odessa it would’ve been buckwheat porridge with wild mushrooms. In Hong Kong, congee with pickles and spicy braised pork. Put the table anywhere, put anything on it, and still Tom would persist with his yogurt and museli. Bedelia dreamed of corned beef hash, eggs Benedict, bagels with lox and cream cheese with chives.

“Which one was the blackcurrant?” she asked for something to say.

They ate in silence. Or Hannibal ate and Tom paused for long moments with his spoon in midair. Bedelia dissected one and a half cornettos and ate the half; a third went into the patch pocket of her cardigan. If Hannibal noticed he pretended not to.

And then Tom pushed away from the table, phone in hand. “Dinner at your usual time?” The spoon standing in his yogurt gently declined toward the rim of the bowl.

“Yes. Will you be there?”

Tom looked to Bedelia at the exact moment she pocketed another cornetto. It was probably a coincidence. “Will you?” he said.

“Where else would I be?”

“Then it’s a party. I’ll see you later. Don’t burn the house down.” Tom didn’t wait on a goodbye.

Hannibal wasn’t about to let anyone hurry him through a meal. He cleared the table around Bedelia, taking her coffee cup last. “Nearly all of the the stone for the villa’s construction was quarried near here. There’s been some modernization, of course, but the place has stood in more or less its current form since the 16th century. Not exactly susceptible to fire.”

“What a relief.”

“Still,” he said, “I’d like to think I could make some impact, if I put my mind to it.”

He was well out of her line of vision. Bedelia didn’t hold back on the eyeroll.


End file.
